Bert Wilson at the Wheel. Duffield J. W.

was a long time before the boys could quiet down and even then they felt like hearing something exciting.

      “Who can tell a good ghost story?” Bob asked.

      “Dave’s the boy. Come on, Dave, put on your thinking cap.”

      Dave Ferris had been elected official story teller at the beginning, because he always had a stock on hand, and they were generally thrilling tales of adventure or weird ghost stories, the kind that boys always revel in.

      Dave was silent, thinking for a little while. Then he said, “All right boys, here goes. Are you ready?”

      To a chorus of “Sure thing, fire away, and break the speed limit,” they all gathered closer together around the fire and Dave began his story.

      CHAPTER IV

      The Challenge

      Dave certainly could not complain of a bored or indifferent audience. Even Mr. Hollis was absorbed and listened with a smile on his kindly face. He was always intensely interested in anything the boys said or did, and was never happier than when he saw that they were especially enjoying themselves.

      Dave had just reached the most thrilling part of his story, and in their imaginations the boys could hear the wailings of the ghost and the clanking of his chains. He was describing the awful appearance of its sunken fiery eyes, when Shorty happened to glance apprehensively around and immediately emitted a blood-curdling yell.

      “The ghost! The ghost!” he stammered, pointing in the direction of the road. All leaped to their feet and followed the direction of Shorty’s trembling finger, and for a moment even Bert Wilson felt a queer little tightening sensation about the heart, for there, apparently coming directly toward them, were the fiery eyes that Dave had just described with such gusto.

      “Why, you simps,” laughed Bert, “that’s no ghost, or if it is, it is the most solid spook I ever heard of. Those are the acetylene lamps of another auto,” and as he spoke he exchanged significant glances with Mr. Hollis.

      Somewhat ashamed of having been so startled, the boys now fell to guessing at the mission of the strange car. They had not long to wait. In a few minutes they could hear the purring of its exhaust, and soon a great gray automobile dashed into camp and drew up in front of the fire.

      From it descended a genial looking man, apparently of about the same age as Mr. Hollis, followed by five clean cut young fellows.

      Mr. Hollis and Mr. Thompson, as the new comer’s name proved to be, evidently knew each other and shook hands heartily. Meanwhile the camp boys mingled with their unexpected guests and with the freemasonry of youth soon became chummy.

      The only fault perhaps that could be found with the new arrivals was that they seemed to be a trifle overbearing, and evidently thought that their car, which they called the “Gray Ghost,” could beat any other automobile ever made.

      It is needless to state that Bert’s crowd felt the same way regarding the “Red Scout,” so that the boys were soon engaged in a heated argument concerning the respective merits of their cars.

      “Why,” maintained Tom, hotly, “you fellows have no idea what our ‘Red Scout’ can do in the way of speed and hill climbing. Just to-day we were out on a run and, though I didn’t actually time it, I am dead sure there were stretches where we did as well as a mile a minute. What do you think of that?” he asked triumphantly.

      Indeed, this seemed to cool the visitors down somewhat and they exchanged surprised glances. But they soon recovered their confidence and went on to describe the speed qualities of their car with ever-increasing enthusiasm.

      “It was just a short time ago,” said one whose name turned out to be Ralph Quinby, “that we took the ‘Gray Ghost’ around the old race track just outside the town, and we averaged over fifty miles an hour. We could have gone much faster too, only Mr. Thompson would not let us. I’ll just bet your auto couldn’t go as fast as that.”

      It was now the turn of their hosts to look doubtful. They were sure, however, that the “Red Scout” could hold its own with any other car, and as they thought of their idolized driver, Bert Wilson, their confidence came back with a rush.

      “Well,” replied Tom, drawing a long breath, “you fellows evidently think you could win in a race and we just know that we could, so I guess the only way to settle the dispute is to run off a race somewhere and prove which is the better machine. I know we’d be willing if you would, wouldn’t we, boys?”

      There was a chorus of approving shouts from his companions, but the visitors only smiled in a superior fashion, and evidently thought there could be but one conclusion to any race in which their car was entered.

      Meanwhile, Mr. Hollis and Mr. Thompson were holding an earnest conversation in which the latter seemed to be urging some point about which Mr. Hollis apparently hesitated. In fact, Mr. Thompson was trying to get Mr. Hollis to give his consent to a race between the cars owned by the two camps. But the latter thought that it would involve too much risk for the boys who drove the machines.

      “You see, it’s this way,” he was saying, “you and I, Thompson, are responsible for the safety of these boys. We both feel toward them as though they belonged to us and if anything happened to them we would never forgive ourselves. It seems to me too big a risk to take merely for the sake of seeing who owns the faster car.”

      “Yes, you’re dead right there, of course,” returned Mr. Thompson, “but then I don’t think the risk is so great as you imagine. I have seen the track they would use, provided the race was run, and I think there would be little, if any, danger. The track has not been used for several years and most of the fence is missing, so that if they ran off the course itself, it would only be a matter of running over the grass until they stopped. You know me well enough to realize that I would not sanction anything that contained too large an element of peril. As for the slight risk that undoubtedly exists, it seems to me that it would not hurt the boys to take it, and it would teach them self-reliance and confidence.”

      “As far as that goes,” said Mr. Hollis, smiling reluctantly, “my boys have too much confidence in themselves and I have to be constantly curbing their tendencies toward taking chances. However, I have every confidence in your judgment, so I suppose I might as well consent this once. I wish to have it understood, however, that this is the last as well as the first race they ever run, win or lose.”

      “That suits me all right, so I guess we can consider it settled,” answered Mr. Thompson, “what do you say to going over and having a look at the machines? You haven’t seen our car yet, have you?”

      “No, that’s a pleasure still in store for me,” replied Mr. Hollis; and the two men rose and strolled over to where the cars stood, their brass work glittering in the light of the dancing campfire.

      By this time most of the boys had gathered around the cars, but they saluted and made way respectfully for their leaders as they came up. They both smiled when they saw Bert and Ralph Quinby, for they were so engrossed in the discussion of the respective merits and appliances of their cars that they did not even notice the coming of their leaders.

      Such terms as “gear ratios,” “revolutions per minute” and “three point suspension” filled the air, and Mr. Hollis whispered to Mr. Thompson: “I’ll wager that those boys saturate their handkerchiefs with gasoline, so that whenever they get a block away from a machine they can smell gasoline and feel at home again.”

      “Wouldn’t be surprised if they did,” laughed Mr. Thompson.

      “Here, you fellows come out of your trance,” called Dick, and Bert and Ralph turned quickly around and saluted.

      Their leaders returned the salute, and Mr. Thompson said: “Well, I suppose both you boys think you have a pretty fast machine there. How would you like to have a test of speed?”

      There was a chorus of excited cries and exclamations from the boys, and their leaders smiled indulgently.

      Bert stepped forward and said: “I think, sir, that I speak for Mr. Quinby as well as myself when I say that nothing would